Our destination: Cork city, county Cork, Ireland.

Having gotten all (most) of my hysterical nerves out of the way several months pervious, while applying for my passport, the actual packing process was calm, quick, and efficient. Well, mine was. Bill’s preferred method of dealing with pre-travel jitters included packing everything, pacing around the house looking for everything he forgot, and then deciding that the first try wasn’t spot on. So he dumps out his suitcase, and starts again. It should be noted that the majority of his suitcase got emptied out onto me. But it was all clothes, and I was half asleep by then.

Off to the airport the next day - and we were picked up by a limo. I was expecting a nice sedan, not something quite so… big. Quite nice.

While the drive *to* JFK went off without a hitch, the Aer Lingus check in computers crashed just as we arrived. After 40 minutes of standing in a non moving line, we finally got ourselves checked in and waved goodbye to our luggage. I felt bad for the poor staff, who looked as though they expected to be pelted with rotten fruit. (Some of our fellow travellers were less relaxed about the whole business. There’s no angry traveller like a New York traveller, apparently.)

On the JFK concourse:
Airports are a lot like malls, but with a little more science fiction.

After going through the (intimidating) security check, I only hoped that my film had made it through intact. (It had, as evidenced by the many photos.)

The flight itself was very long - made longer by the joy of having a seven year old moppet kick the back of my chair every 20 minutes. Aer Lingus food, by the way, is quite nice. Their chairs, on the other hand, would not have suffered by being a little larger.

By the time we hit the Dublin airport, I was already missing the cats. And exhausted. Compared to JFK, it was remarkably non-threatening. And there was knotwork… almost everywhere. On the doors, in advertising, in corporate logos… I’ve seen less interlace among the celtic revivalists at ren faire.

Found the baggage carousel… and about a half hour later we found our luggage. Nothing like being exhausted, worried that you’re going to miss your connection, and wondering if you’re going to have a single change of clothes for the next week.

We took a commuter flight from Dublin to the Cork airport, (I think we were the only two tourists aboard - only two other people even checked luggage.) which was a lot like Teterboro. If Teterboro was geared for a heavy commuter rush. However, they’re in the middle of some heavy duty renovations. By the time we do this again (it would be nice if we could do it again next year, but reality says it’ll be 2-3 years before money and schedules will permit it.) we should be able to fly straight into Cork, it’s going to be that big.

Things one never thinks about that when altered are quite a surprise:
Everyone looks like they’d fit in at one of my family reunions. Coming from the tri state area, I’m not used to so much racial homogeneity. Felt odd.
Cell phones are *huge* over there. Everyone has one, and thanks to the fact that there’s one tech standard no matter what provider you use, texting is even bigger.
They have credit card enabled pay phones. You just swipe and dial. Why can’t we have this?

We were running far enough ahead of schedule that Jerry (our erstwhile host) hadn’t yet shown up. We wandered about, converted our cash to euros (and my, aren’t they pretty) and had breakfast. When Jerry did get in, (with amazing alacrity, considering that we got in about 45 minutes ahead of schedule) we got the back roads penny tour of Cork. Everyone was happy to see us - the hospitality was really amazing.

Jet lag induced napping claimed the rest of the day.

That evening (a relative term, seeing as the sun doesn’t set until sometime around 10:30) we went out to see Charles Fort. It was too late to actually get in, but just tromping around the outside was amazing.

Julie’s inner voice: “Eeeeee! Look! Real battlements! Wooot!”
Julie’s outer voice: “Wow.”
Julie’s inner photographer: “I’m never going to shoot all this well enough to do it justice.” (Thus began my habit of buying postcards everywhere we stoped that had them.)
Julie’s outer photographer: “Go on, I’ll catch up. Just wanna get this shot.”

On returning to the house (by way of a 200 year old pub, and yes, the Guiness really does taste better over there) Jerry’s daughter Claire (Who would be our *other* erstwhile guide, introducing us to the city pubs and the under 30 crowd, while Jerry showed us about the historical sites and countryside.) gave us our first taste of Cork’s nightlife.

Cork natives, when they can manage it, don’t drive into the city center. They stop at park and rides, or take cabs in from the outer suburbs. Far better than trying to navigate and find parking, and no need for a designated driver. The youth oriented clubs and pubs are loud and crowded on the slow nights. On the not so slow nights (as we were to find the next evening) they’re so packed that any forward movement requires one to physically shove through a mass of bodies.

The clubs were nice, but the Franciscan Well (beer garden/pub) was even nicer. Several homebrews were available, and the most amazing pear cider I’ve ever had.

On hometown heroes:
Everyone knows where New Jersey is, thanks to one of the following things: The Sopranos, The Boss, Bon Jovi, and Billy Joel.

The Super!Loo
Gougane Barra and St. Finbar, at the headwaters of the river Lee:
Gorgeous drive - the mountains don’t have trees on them, which was beautiful and yet amazingly wrong to my mind, which is used to the forested appalachians. The low, rolling hills of the farms are a lot like Pennsylvania, but with a lot more fields. Nothing but farms, it often seems. And then you catch a glimpse of the sea, and you’re looking out at a beautiful and foreign place all over again.

Also at St. Finbar’s you can find the best public restroom in all of Ireland. I’m not kidding. There’s even a plaque proclaiming it.

Much like in western NJ and eastern PA, there are a lot of sheep, goats, cows, and horses - but it seems like a lot more of them. While driving by, we spied a black sheep. I didn’t think much of it, but Bill was amazed. He’d thought they were an old wives tale, like hen’s teeth. I love my suburban boy.

Random Irish language trivia:
Eolas translates as information. This will be amusing only to the webgeeks in the audience.
Gaelic and Irish are not the same thing. Gaelic was what they spoke several hundred years ago. Irish is what they learn in school now.

Observations on the food:
You can get salmon *everywhere* - even in the US themed diner. (Which served better food that you would *ever* get in a real diner.)
Coffee is not that big a thing (although you can get espresso and mochas in all the restaurants) and soda is rare. Lots of water being drunk, often with a slice of lemon tossed in. I picked up a few healthy habits i’m hoping to keep for a while.
In spite of the healthy eating, I gained a little weight. I blame the rich, decadent dinners we kept going out to. (But I don’t think you’ve lived until you’ve had mango cheesecake.)

On sports:
Soccer - the first team sport I can sit down and enjoy watching. And there’s really nothing like sitting in a pub and watching the place go nuts as England gets beat by Portugal in overtime.

Line of the evening:
6:00 - England Vs. Portugal
8:30 - Free pints if England looses
On a board outside a pub (not the one we were in, alas). Cork isn’t the most british loving of Irish cities. And the pub we *were* in just went nuts at the end.

On global culture:

It’s amazing to hear english, irish, french, and czech all at once. But ladies room conversations are so universal, translation is not required.
Things that transcend time zones and language barriers: pudgy girls in belly tees, drunk guys with bad pickup lines, and the mutual disdain of the young and old for each other.
On the main drag in Cork, you can see a Subway and McDonald’s, hunkered inside buildings that are centuries older than either company. You get the feeling that the buildings will be there long after the companies themselves have died.
I traveled halfway across the world, and found myself on a dance floor with Guns and Roses blasting. Surreal.

On local culture:
Tipping the bartender is a big insult - you’re saying he’s not doing his job properly. However, it is acceptable to show your appreciation by offering to buy him (or her) a drink. It is acceptable to tip waiters, but not as de regur as it is in the states. Apparently, waiters get paid a livable wage. Imagine that.

On politics:
I was expecting to have the fact that I’m american held against me, but I got more flack for having an ancestor who, three or four generations ago, hailed from england. Unlike my own countrymen, the Irish have no problem with being pro-american and anti-Bush. (And dear lord, do they not like the shrub. Not that I blame them.) We missed the anti-bush rally (though it would have been nice to be able to go), and flew out about two or three hours before the national embarrassment flew in. No delays were caused, though we were expecting to get held up on the tarmac for a few hours as they shut down local airspace in advance of air force one.

On hospitality:
The Irish are so welcoming they make southern gentlemen look like paranoid xenophobes. Everyone (and I mean down to random passers by) wanted to know what part of the states we were from, if this was our first trip, if we were enjoying ourselves, when were planning on coming back…. it was amazing. We only ran into *one* person who gave us the hairy eyebrow when she heard our accents - a shopkeeper who really couldn’t see the backs of us fast enough. Even that was comforting - much like the chilly and occasionally rainy weather, it kept everything from being *too* perfect.

On history:
I always thought that having so much history about one would be a wonderful thing (says the girl who has been studying castles her entire life) but I never realized what it would mean to have the reminders of so much violence and bloodshed all about. Sometimes, if you close your eyes, you can almost feel the blood rushing past your feet, and it finally starts to make sense, why the ancient grudges could never die.

Off for a walk:
Out walking with Jerry (he has the sweetest dog you could imagine, and I’ve never seen a dog happier to go on a walk.) I discovered the local equilvant of poison ivy - stinging nettles. God. Damm. Ouch. Jerry reached down, plucked a leaf from the plant growing next to the nettles (and I wish I could remember what it was called) and had me rub the leaf on the very quickly rising blisters. In less than five minutes, it was all gone. Now that’s my kind of magic.

Other plants of note were foxglove (pink bluebells on steroids) and fuchsia (which I always thought was a completely made up color.) We have neither in my corner of the world, and they are beautiful. While we do have queen anne’s lace, the variety I kept seeing by the side of these roads was enormous and… stocky. It almost looked butch.

The plants don’t go away when you enter a building - there are fresh cut flowers everywhere you look. In kitchens, on tables, even in restrooms. I saw only one silk flower arrangement the whole time we were there.

Wandering in town:
Mosaics are everywhere - used for wall murals, church floors, welcome signs, store advertising… and every time I saw one, I thought of my mom, and how much she’s going to love that when she goes over in a few years.

Every side street and corner has a busker on guitar, whistle, flute, drums, or hammered dulcimer. The traditional songs are amazingly popular, and every time we passed one, I was homesick. I also realized that all those songs are just folks singing about the people and places they know, just like Springsteen singing about Asbury Park, or Billy Joel singing about Hackensack. And now I’ve actually been “over the Cork and Kerry mountains”. But no captain Ferrel did I find - probably for the best, that. Metallica actually played the area a while back, but did *not* perform Whisky In The Jar - much to the local’s disappointment, I heard.

Every pub also has a musician, but running into them there, I wasn’t just homesick, I missed Herb so much I wound up sniffling into my drink. I could only think of how much he and mom would have *loved* sitting there, watching everything and being annoyingly cute together. But I think he was there, watching with me. I hope so, at least.

Wandering in Dublin:
This isn’t a city one can see in a day, although we tried. Did see the Book of Kells, and my *god*, all the plates and reproductions I’ve seen over the years just don’t do it justice. Also, I’m pretty sure heaven looks a lot like the Trinity College library.

On the subject of books:
Chain bookstores haven’t taken over here, although they do exist. There are lots of little niche and specialty bookstores - tiny, ancient looking storefronts (like The Winding Stair) filled with aromatic dust and stacks upon stacks of books just begging to be poured over. But I was very good - Bill and Claire didn’t have to drag me out by the collar when it was time to go and catch the train back to Cork.

Going home
Going in, I thought I’d never want to leave, but maybe the best thing about vacations is remembering how wonderful home really is. of course, getting home was every bit as exhausting as getting over in the first place. Cork to Dublin (Aer Arran) and then Dublin to JFK (Aer Lingus) and JFK to home (limo). You’d think that would be the end of it, but after a week of nothing but good luck and happy travel gods, something had to happen. Instead of following us to the States, our luggage decided to take a side trip to Amsterdam. (It got more play than we did - not fair!) We finally got it delivered via courier two days later. I have to say, the Aer Lingus people were great about tracking it down and getting it back to us - I shudder to think what would have happened had we been flying a domestic carrier like Continental.

What do I love most about being home? My cats, who I missed terribly. My nice big comfey bed. (Bill and I were in the same room but separate beds.) Really scalding hot showers. Getting to walk around the house nearly/mostly/all naked. Sleeping naked. being able to share all these neat stories with my friends. Getting back to work. (’Cause it might not be the the world’s most perfect job, but it doesn’t suck.) Summertime that feels like summer. (Average temperatures for an Irish summer feel more like a damp Jersey spring) Mountains that make my ears pop when I go up them. Seeing my grandparents. Real bagels. So very many things that I never gave much thought to.